The Sons of Our Fathers: Successors
by Trinity Archangel
Summary: Following chronologically the events of The Sons of Our Fathers, Damian has a potential ally to rebuild the Bat network that disbanded at his father's death and his rise to the cowl. Problem is, he doesn't seem to want one. Guys, just gonna keep pumping out my "comics" to flesh out a new world with a version Damian as Batman. One shot.


"Before we close," The head of the Board of Directors for Wayne Enterprises began, playfully sliding a newspaper across the conference table. "I think we should discuss the probability of Mr. Wayne here being the Batman."

The comment succeeded in garnering a glance from Damian who had been, as usual, detached and uninterested the entire time. He seldom contributed to these trite meetings that his investors insisted were necessary for him to attend. If anything necessitated his response, he would steal a less than conspicuous glance at Tam Fox, who was typically already nodding or shaking her head in response to the proposition and he would verbalise her opinion without fail, much to the subdued frustration of his investors.

This time, though, he couldn't look to Tam. In fact, he couldn't contain his own frustration with their joking insinuations. In the weeks that followed his confrontation with Jon Kent, he had grown quite tired with how right the press was about his alter ego despite more reputable sources dismissing the claim as ludicrous.

"That isn't funny, Mr. Aubright. Jon was a close friend of mine." He said sternly, satisfied with the withering smile on the director. The few chuckles dried up immediately.

Damian pushed away from the conference table and stood stiffly to adjourn the meeting. "If there is nothing else..." He trailed off, glancing around the table at downcast faces shamed to silence. He hardly gave them a second to object before he turned abruptly toward the door without excusing himself.

It was trivial little things like that that drove him to the cowl. But Damian had always been petty. Perched atop the Thomas Elliot Medical Center in the heart of uptown Gotham, he had hoped for hours that some equally as petty criminal would give him a reason to go above and beyond a deserving beating in a way his father would have frowned upon. But his overzealous methods of taming Gotham's underbelly had made it a rather crime free city, boasting all time murder lows and winning Most Promising City two years in a row. Being a capricious Batman had its perks. The psychological fear of the Batman showing up randomly and crippling or maiming a perp after months of inactivity had succeeded in taming the town. He yawned, disappointed that he would have no catch tonight.

A cooling breeze caressed him, soothing his clammy skin beneath the batsuit. He contemplated taking off the cowl, if for just a moment to let the chill of the night air dry him off. The thought passed with the risk just as quickly as it came upon him, and his comms came to life. It had been hacked several times before since Barbara Gordon had, in her great distaste for him, resigned as the Oracle. He shook his head dismissively, ignoring the voice that tried to reach him.

"Hello."

It was scrambled. Distinctly female, nonetheless. If it was Barbara, she was bold enough and confident enough not to use a voice scrambler. In addition, for all she was worth, she sounded like an aging woman. Not like the sultry young lady trying to guise her voice. If she was smart enough to hack his comms, she should be smart enough to know the Batcomputer would have a lock on her location the second he got back to Wayne Manor if he had any inclination to follow up on any of his interlopers. A simple hello wasn't enough to follow up on.

"I know you can hear me."

"Get lost," he warned flatly. At this rate he would drag off the cowl just to escape the potential small talk he was sure she was trying to offer.

"You're as rude as the rumors suggest, Mr. Wayne."

Damian didn't flinch. Obviously, they read the papers as much as the next person.

"I know you aren't impressed. I have a lock on your location at Thomas Elliot Medical Center. I'm going to save you the trouble of going back to the Batcave to trace me."

Damian smirked. He really had little else to do. But the mystery caller was right about his location and his identity, and confidently so. What else did she know?

"You had better be worthwhile." He returned.

"Just follow the skylights." She instructed.

The communication ended and the sky lights on the adjacent buildings came alive, rotating their beams pointedly. This was no ordinary hacker. He contemplated stroking Barbara's ego to save himself the trip, but no amount of flattery would ever have Barbara yield to him. He had defied, offended, and worst, opposed her mentor, his father, too many times for her to heed to his flowers and candy routine only for him to amuse himself by discarding her reasoning at their next disagreement. He had frustrated her too many times.

He let go fearlessly of the smooth stone siding of the hospital roof and began his descent rapidly. He loved the fuel it gave his adrenaline to dare gravity to pull him into the earth before his cape fanned out beside him and swept him up on a great column of air to glide him over the city, following the caprice of the skylights.

Like a beacon, his destination flickered before him. In fact, the entire floor of the penthouse alighted momentarily upon his approach. He found the sole window open to be that of a spare room, neatly and tastefully decorated. He also knew he wasn't alone in the room.

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne. Don't worry about aliases. I secured our channel before I contacted you. But it still doesn't mean you didn't take a risk coming here," the voice scolded.

"Really?" He replied incredulously, peeling off his cowl. "Just what is your salary at Wayne Enterprises, Tam?"

His company balked. "How did you-"

"I've sat in meetings with you every week for years. If only you had changed your perfume you would have remained a mystery just a moment more." He navigated the room by light of the moon and took a seat into her nearest arm chair as she glided to the windows to draw the blinds. The light came on the minute they had privacy, and he sat smiling smugly at her, his black hair wild and thick, his exotic eyes glinting with the satisfaction of another case closed. Tam was disappointed that her charade ended so quickly, but he was his father's son after all, and her father had warned her that little went past the Wayne's understanding or notice. Bruce was sagacious, inquisitive, cautious, Damian was over confident, brash and foolishly fearless to boot.

"I wish you'd put the cowl back on," She admitted.

"Why is that?"

Because Damian Wayne was distracting.

"Because I want to proposition the Batman."

Damian's brows went up in interest. "Go on."

"I'm good at what I do. I can help you. I know that since taking on this role, you've been largely abandoned by the support that your father had. For you, there is no more Oracle. No more Alfred or Commissioner Gordon. And thanks to Parkinson's, barely any Lucius Fox."

Damian held up a hand to stop her. "I know where this is going, and I appreciate it, but I'll not have you suffer the same fate of blind devotion to the point of constant peril like those that came before you."

"This isn't the same Gotham your father left behind," She reminded. "There's also no more Two Face or Joker." Harvey Dent and Two Face had merged into a third, indiscernible personality, inert from medically maintained schizophrenia. The Joker's whereabouts were unknown.

"But there is a Jon Kent, and as far as opposition goes, I think I've bested my father in that department."

She folded her arms defiantly. "I beg to differ. You need an Oracle, Damian. You can thank me for all the work I do behind the scenes to keep your sloppy ass off the victim list of many a techno junkie who is as hobby capable as me to hack your comms or worse. Whether you accept me or not, I just wanted you to know I was there. But it would have been nice to have your blessing."

Damian's smile did not fade. "In good conscience you do not have my blessing. But if it pleases you to feel important or follow in your father's footsteps, then do so."

Tams face tanned at his acidic rhetoric. Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You are such an ass. Get out." This time her arms folded in petulance.

Damian sprang up from the arm chair at the realization of his faux par. "What I mean to say is that I make no distinction between you and the Oracle you wish to be. Just because you have an alias, you're still Tam Fox. _My_ Tam. My father put those he cared most about in harm's way, knowingly encouraging their vigilantism to further his cause. You'll never get the recognition you deserve. I didn't agree with his practices. You are intelligent, you are useful, both to Damian and to the Batman, but if you wish to be my sage, Tam, I will never officiate you." He placed his left hand on his chest and raised his right. "Scout's honor."

Tam's face scrunched in disbelief. "You expect me to accept that you don't want me because you value me? You tried to make that rejection sound principled."

"I wouldn't say I don't want you..." Why with her tanned form, all five feet six of a health-conscious body maintained by yoga and decorated with a light spattering of freckles across her cheeks and bare shoulders, rising with goosepimples as her heart accelerated with his proximity. He seldom gave Tam more than a glance at Wayne Enterprises. But it didn't mean he didn't like what he saw. At work she tackled her curly 'fro to remain kept and professional, but at home he had to admit how the wildness of her hair and the reveal of her bare legs, in white cotton shorts and manicured pink toes peeking through a pair of bedroom slippers appealed to his senses. Here, he didn't have to pretend not to notice her. Again, her complexion flushed.

He knew he had embarrassed her with his innuendo. She took a half step back and averted her eyes. He had suddenly made her feel quite naked.

"I won't be a damsel that needs saving."

Damian smirked at her confidence. She didn't convince him, but he found it incredibly sexy to watch her chin rise and her shoulders square indignantly.

"We'll see," He returned, drawing his cowl over his head. He reached up a hand and touched the side of her face briefly, sponging what he could of that connection through his gloved hand.

"Goodnight."

Her lights flickered, no doubt the result of a nanocurrent programmed into his suit to send out an EMP to aid in his mysterious disappearance because he was gone the next time the lights came on. Tam rolled her eyes at his flair and snapped her window shut after him.

β

Tam blew an unruly curl out from her eyes as she maneuvered up the stairs outside of Wayne Enterprises with an armful of paperwork and a thermos of coffee. She really needed a personal assistant. If the messenger bag at her side wasn't already full of to-dos, she'd have more confidence in her ability to make it up the stairs and not drop her cellphone that was sliding about atop the stack in her hands.

When she had made it to the top of the stairs, she met the resistance to her saunter forward with a frown as her left heel pulled away from the chewing gum trying to anchor her to the pavement.

The second she looked down everything in her arms took a tumble.

If that set the pace for the rest of her morning, she wasn't looking forward to the day. She stooped to gather her paperwork when a pair of bit loafers came into view. The owner dropped to assist her and met her brown eyes with his blue.

"Thanks for your help."

The stranger stacked the papers neatly and handed her the pile, aiding her rise with a guiding hand on her elbow.

"I'm Jimmy." He introduced, picking up her thermos of spilled coffee.

"I'm-"

"Tam," he butted in.

Surprised that she was familiar to him, she finally paused to take a good look at the stranger. He was vaguely familiar, from the cut of his brown hair, neatly swept back, and square framed glasses resting on his sharp nose. He looked like the younger, less distressed version of former GCPD Commissioner Gordon.

Her eyes widened a touch. "Are you James Gordon's son? _That_ Jimmy Gordon?" She didn't mean to sound like a fan, but James Gordon had impacted the city in a way the Batman never could have with his disarming press conferences and steadfast commitment to Gotham. Being Commissioner in the prime of Gotham's most formidable criminals weighed heavy on James Gordon. He smoked a pack of cigarettes a day until he was diagnosed with cancer, upped the habit to two packs, and died within a year of his diagnosis. It was rumored that he was glad to have chosen his own fate.

Jimmy pushed his glasses further up his nose. "That Jimmy Gordon, yes."

"You look a lot like your father."

"Yeah, but I didn't pursue his interests." He tapped at the ID card tacked to his brown coat as he handed her the now half empty thermos.

JIMMY GORDAN, _The Gotham Reporter._

"Anyway, I'm wondering what your plans are this weekend?"

Tam froze. That had happened fast. She still hadn't collected her wits from dropping her things, and now Jimmy Gordon was possibly asking her out. Her mouth hung open, but no words came. Jimmy wasn't even looking at her. He was too busy fishing through his wallet for a business card.

"Nothing extravagant. Just your time and your company to interview you for a column on minority professionals in Gotham."

From just past him, Damian took form and paused aside to continue the observation, amused. Her eyes darted back to Jimmy as he thoughtlessly dropped the card atop everything else in her arms.

"Friday?" He offered, tucking his wallet away.

Tam could feel her face flushing with embarrassment.

"Friday." She heard herself repeat. His hands disappeared into his coat pocket as he nodded satisfactorily. He departed without another word, eyes dipped as if he had been embarrassed by the whole ordeal. No more so than Tam, who couldn't bear to endure Damian's smug and knowing expression as he neared her.

"Tam Fox. Did you just accept a date with that creeper, Jimmy Gordon?" He asked, jutting a thumb toward his departing form.

A sigh escaped her clenched teeth. "It isn't a date. It's an interview," she corrected.

"The same Jimmy Gordon suspected in the disappearance of his sister?"

Tam felt a touch defensive of her suitor. "Suspected, not investigated. What are you doing here anyway? There aren't any meetings scheduled?"

"I have a brunch date," he returned with a boyish grin, dropping a grey velvet box onto her stack. Her eyes drew to it immediately. She tried to hide her flattery behind the annoyance of having to balance something else.

"Something to wear on your date Friday," he teased, turning away from her.

"Dam-Mr. Wayne..."

"Earrings," He spoiled. "You're welcome." He departed, skipping down the stairs to escape her rejection, assuming it was coming. He could feel it heading down the stairs after him. Tam snapped her open mouth shut. She hadn't planned a rebuttal. It was the second time that morning a man had left her standing confused and speechless.

β

Somehow, Friday arrived without giving Tam much of a buffer. It wasn't often an interviewer was curious about _her._ Her father spent years dodging prying questions about Wayne Enterprises and its technologies and now it seemed that the torch had been passed down to her. When she came on board, at first as her father's apprentice, she was none the wiser to Bruce Wayne's identity _or_ to the fact that her father knew who he was. Mr. Wayne had always been fond of her and spoke to her sweetly. He had even funded her masters research quietly, a fact that Damian blurted matter of fact one evening in her father's office. Damian was a moody and petulant teenager who never seemed to bend an ear to anything his father had to say but hung on to every word from Lucius Fox's mouth about nanotechnology and interfacing with subsonic propagation mediums. She admired Damian from a distance to avoid the turn of his tantrums, but the day her father had a massive stroke, it was Damian who softened his collapse and cradled him caringly. It wasn't until Mr. Wayne knelt beside them to fold his jacket beneath his head that she made the connection. She had seen the two men before, in a different light, in newspaper clippings and flashes of news, armoured in Kevlar and veiled by the darkness. As Mr. Wayne cared for her father, so the Batman cared for Gotham.

For that reason, she would never betray their legacy. Today, she wouldn't have to. For once, something was about her.

She finished attaching the new earrings Damian had given her and turned about in the mirror to critique her ensemble. Jimmy Gordon didn't seem like the kind of guy who would have minded if she was wearing a track suit or the one-piece sweater dress she had on, but she had always sought to please herself firstly.

She was dabbing her pulse points with perfume when a man's voice startled her.

"Finished getting ready?"

She whirled around with a small scream on her lips, eyes darting about her condo for the intruder.

"Relax, it's me," the voice soothed.

"Damian?!" She shrieked.

"Yes. Your earrings. Tastefully transmitting you loud and clear."

She darted out of her bedroom and flew about, unconvinced that he wasn't lurking somewhere with eyes on her. She had never felt so violated in her life.

"I don't believe you've done this." She fumed. She was on her hands and knees in the guest bedroom, lifting the corner of the comforter to search under the bed.

"You're the one who contacted me," he returned, matter of fact.

"How?" She popped up and marched over to her drapes, snatching them away from the window in grand reveal. He was not there, to her relief and disappointment to the lack of vilification.

"The earrings pick up on the subtle temperature changes being on your ears, and it lets me know you're on."

"How do I get rid of you?"

He sounded vaguely hurt when he responded. "Take them out then. Throw them away."

"You can't see me, can you?" She peered into open bathroom door on her way into the kitchen, just to be sure.

"No, but I'm sure you look lovely. As your date will attest when he sees you shortly. He left his place ten minutes ago."

Tam wasn't sure she wanted to know how he knew that, exactly. "What am I doing right now?" She tested, pouring herself a glass of wine. She would gulp it down and reset her nerves. Damian had topped out her blood pressure.

"Tam, I don't know. But if I had to take a guess, having a glass of wine. I can hear you pouring-it was brief-and unless you're drinking water from a glass container, which I doubt because I've seen your kitchen and your filtration system negates that, quote, 'necessity' then you're having wine. Red."

Tam narrowed her eyes to slits and downed the glass in one swallow. Now she really didn't believe he wasn't in her condo. She wanted to ask him what brand it was that she was drinking but he'd probably have the answer to that also.

"Excellent work, detective. But it sounds like _you're_ not home." She leaned against the counter.

"Oh?" He challenged, artfully lifting the sill to Jimmy Gordons bedroom window. He slipped inside and made a brief scan of the room he was in. It hardly looked lived in and smelled powerfully of mothballs.

It was Tam's turn to play the detective. "Wind noise. You were outside. It stopped."

"Wind noise?" He repeated, incredulous. "Please see to it that the tech department do a better job at noise dampening."

He started down the stairs tentatively, rightfully imagining that she was rolling her eyes at his request.

"May I ask where you are then, if you aren't in my apartment watching me drink wine in my kitchen?"

"At Jimmy Gordon's."

Tam bolted upright from the counter. "What?"

"Your disbelief boarders on disapproval. So, before you start, I'm investigating a man whose sister disappeared mysteriously two weeks after he moves in with her. He happens to have a date tonight, and I capitalized on the opportunity to-"

"Snoop!"

"-further the investigation." He finished.

"Furthermore, it's an _interview_ ," she corrected, "and I thought Barbara Gordon was his sister because she isn't missing."

"Half-sister. The Commissioner re-married after divorcing from Barbara's mother."

A whimsical chime alerted her to a visitor at her door.

"Jimmy is here. Hang up or something. Bye."

In a mocking tone, "Good luck with your _interview_."

Tam rolled her eyes again and swung open the door to greet Jimmy.

He stood there with a messenger bag at his side and a camera clutched between anxious hands. He was walking in before she could invite him.

"Oh-Hi, Jimmy," She stood aside to allow him to pass the threshold easier.

"Hi." He took two strides in and glanced around quickly to get his bearings. He turned to Tam after he was satisfied and extended a hand toward the living room as though he were ushering her into his own home.

Tam paused. "Uh, could I get you a drink or-"

He shook his head and pushed his glasses up his nose with a finger. "No."

"Okay…" She relented, following his insistence.

"Take a seat in the living room. I want to take the pictures, first."

"Pictures?" She echoed.

Jimmy slung his messenger bag from his shoulder and dropped it on the table top. He shrugged out of his jacket and set it on the armrest of her white tufted armchair.

"Yeah."

Tam was seldom caught off guard. She could force a smile on a whim and had dozens of practiced poses at her disposal to fit the occasion. Classy, casual, approachable. She wasn't familiar with Jimmy Gordon's writing style but when people read the _Gotham Reporter_ they'd be sure to feel comfortable and familiar with the chic young professional in the photos.

She took to the edge of the ottoman and rested her hands in her lap.

She had hardly glanced up when the camera went off, blinding her momentarily.

"You work fast. Should I reapply my lipstick?"

Jimmy was on bended knee with the camera practically attached to his face, squinting into the viewing lens. "You don't need it."

A rehearsed smile popped up onto her face, tinted with flattery.

"Thanks." Another flash. "Do you have a list of questions composed already?"

The camera drifted down but he didn't answer her.

Tam shifted slightly and brought her hand up under her chin as if in thought. She seemed to be distracting him from the task at hand. Maybe he didn't like to be interrupted while he took photos. Maybe he didn't have plan. She lifted a brow, dubious, just as another flash floated little orbs of light around his image.

"What's your article about, exactly?"

Finally, Jimmy Gordon met her eyes. His expression revealed nothing.

Out of respect for Tam's privacy, Damian had turned down the receiver to a dull mummer as he coursed through the entire bedroom of Jimmy Gordon's missing sister Bess, now misted with luminol, looking for the tiniest glow to indicate there was even a spec of biological compound anywhere in the room. Not even a streak of bleach. The most interesting thing, he discovered, was the fact that Bess kept a box of clothing that was contrary to her size and style all jumbled in her otherwise neatly arranged closet. He rummaged through the box and produced a distressed leather purse. Inside were a stack of dated photos. Damian felt the blood drain from his face as he flipped though them. Each photo was increasingly deviant. Compromised young women with frightened, reluctant repressions begged though the photos for rescue and mercy. Damian's eyes widened with shock.

He touched his earpiece. "Tam, get that man out of your condo. Now!"

Damian screamed his insistence so loudly that Tam startled. She wondered if Jimmy had heard him. She nearly lost herself and responded but recovered her sense quickly and stood up. Something about the demanding tone in Damian's voice convinced her not to question him.

Damian made haste for the window he had entered. "Tam, are you ok? I don't care if he knows I'm listening just answer me!"

Why would he be asking her that? Her heart hit the accelerator. "Uh, maybe we should cancel this interview and reschedule for another day."

Jimmy didn't seem surprised at her sudden disinterest, given that he had forgotten what pretense got him up there to begin with. Sometimes he forgot to construct the foundation for his lies. She took up his jacket and handed it to him as he rose, trying not to meet his eyes or come across as flustered. But she was. Her hands shook as she bent to pick up his messenger bag from her coffee table.

Jimmy stood stiffly, accepting what she thrusted into his hands. His expression had fallen the moment she began to doubt the sincerity of the interview and now coupled with Damian's insistence, she may have imagined that his expression bordered on anger. She dared to turn her back on him.

"I'm sorry for the sudden change of heart, Mr. Gordon."

She could feel him walking a hairsbreadth behind her, practically in stride with her steps.

She had made it to the door, at least.

"No problem," he replied as she pulled open her door to let him out. "I didn't come for that, anyway." He admitted, shoving the door shut. The handle flew from her already trembling fingertips and snapped shut abruptly.

She whirled to face with him a slap she didn't realise she had in her arsenal. She didn't expect to confront him this way. She also didn't expect his return fire. The blow sent her crashing to the ground. A tunnel of darkness was closing when she felt his hands roughly spin her onto her back and pin her hands above her head.

"Get off me!" She screeched, tears flying from her eyes and burning down her abused face. "Damian!"

A hand came down over her mouth to muffle her cries.

"Keep quiet." He lifted his hand and whipped off his glasses, clearing his wide-eyed hungry expression, alight with anticipation. He anchored a knee on either side of her as she fought beneath him, thrashing her legs behind him in desperate flail.

"Wriggle, don't scream," he whispered robotically, trying in vain to drag her dress down. When it wouldn't dip past her shoulders, discovering it was all one piece, he decided to rip it open. He gripped her neck line with two clenched fists, white-knuckled with intensity and committed to tearing it apart. Tam may have been sobbing but as long as she was conscious, she wasn't helpless. Her hand flew up and caught a hold of his ear and peeled it back and away. She half expected it to come off in her hand. He lurched back as she sat up, sending a flurry of slaps and punches and scratches and strikes at her shielding attacker.

"Get out!" She screamed, hammering her fists into him. It felt like forever that she had tussled with him, exhausting herself resisting a man that was twice her weight.

Damian felt like he couldn't get to Tam's fast enough. He feared that he would arrive too late for anything he did to matter. The contrails of the Batwing were the only evidence of its passing. Damian had ejected and was plummeting through the sky toward the familiar skylights of her building, willing himself to move faster than physics would allow. The Batwing would be out of Gotham airspace before their radars even detected its presence and before he burst through the security latches on her French balcony doors. He righted himself in time to meet the startled expression on the faces of both a tearful Tam with her dress a shredded rag and Jimmy Gordon, immediately impotent at the interruption with a handful of Tam's hair knotted in his fist.

He tried to back off before the Batman got to him, but his trembling legs wouldn't allow for sure footing. Damian caught him by the collar as Jimmy brought up his hands to distance himself from him and with a simple leg sweep, Jimmy was on his back gaping at the terrifying face of the black cowl shadowing the pearly sneer of Damian's clenched teeth. The first punch sent a splattering of blood across the tile floor. Jimmy shot out a hand and grabbed at Damian who was throwing a savage barrage punches down at him. The next time Damian pulled back from punch, he was certain a part of Jimmy's tooth had broken off in his fist. It wasn't the first time. The gloves he used for sleuthing weren't designed for combat. The way Jimmy Gordon's face was exploding over his hands, he wouldn't be able to extend his fingers come morning. When he couldn't strike him anymore for fear of breaking his own hands, he wrapped them around his throat and leaned down to crush his windpipe. He wouldn't regret it.

"Damian!"

Tam threw herself at him and knocked him from his trance, sobering his bloodlust. He turned to look at her, pleading and beaten with her hands wrapped around his wrists to spoil his intent.

"Please, stop! You're going to kill him!"

He looked back to Jimmy, spurting out blood between gasps, blinded by his own debris and disfiguring swelling.

Her grip softened around his wrists. "Please don't," she sobbed. Damian studied her a moment. Her cheek was swollen and inflamed. Her clothes were in tatters. Her chest had streaks of scratch marks dragging down to her breasts. Her tears seemed an antidote to his temper, only she did not shed them for her own pity.

Damian didn't answer. He stood up from Jimmy's defeated form, gathered him up by the collar and dragged him to the balcony from which he had made his entrance. Tam followed them all the while Jimmy pawed in vain for Damian's release.

Damian climbed onto the railing, shot out a line between buildings and made off with Jimmy Gordon.

β

The French doors still hung open, swaying quietly in the wind and gulping in the sounds of Gotham below. The ghostly trails of her sheer drapes flagged in the breeze. Damian gathered them up in his hands and drew them aside as he reentered her condo to eerie silence. The floor, a bloody canvas, where Jimmy's discarded glasses and messenger bag lay. He picked up the messenger bag and peeked inside, unsurprised at the contents. Duct tape. Condoms. A roll of thin twine. He set down the bag and headed toward the bedrooms. Tam, ever resilient because she willed herself to be, had retired with a pack of frozen vegetables covering her face. Her back was to the door when Damian entered her bedroom cautiously, calling out to her as he went toward her vulnerable form, curled with her knees drawn up to her chest in a knee length bathrobe.

He reached out a hand to her. "Tam."

She spun to face him before he could reach her. He withdrew his hand slowly.

"Are you alright?" He asked, pulling off his cowl to reveal his concerned expression.

She sat up slowly and looked up at him with the one eye she didn't have buried behind the vegetables. "Did you…?"

Damian shook his head. No. For her sake, he didn't. "He'll be fine. I made sure he got picked up by EMS before I came back here. Are you ok?"

She ignored him a second time. "Would you have-"

Frustrated, Damian took hold of the hand holding her makeshift ice pack in place. "Let me see." He commanded.

She relented, dipping her face as her hand fell. Damian took up her chin and tilted her face toward him. The frozen pack had done its job reducing the swelling of her lip and cheek, but the assault would haunt her for a few days.

"Jesus." Damian muttered.

"Looks like I'll need a few days off, Mr. Wayne."

Damian for once, could not match her humor. The more he stood looming over her, hate resurfacing behind his eyes at what Jimmy Gordon had done to her, the more her mask of resilience melted away and swelled her eyes with tears. He let her go and looked away from her.

"I called you Damian. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He nodded. "You did."

"What if he goes public with that?"

"He won't. I know his dirty little secret as much as he knows mine. I didn't find Bess, but I did find these." He presented with the stack of photos he had confiscated from Bess's closet and threw them on the bed next to her. Tam scooped them up and shuffled through them. She brought up a hand to cover her mouth. "Oh, God."

"Yeah. The Bleake Island Rapist is Jimmy Gordon."

Disgusted, Tam threw the pile onto the floor at Damian's feet. In the wake of what had happened, he instantly regretted showing them to her.

"What are you going to do?" She picked back up her now thawing ice pack and made room for Damian to sit. He sank down next to her with a sigh and cradled his hand in his lap. His glove was the only thing clotting up the injuries. Every fasciculation under his skin felt stiff and mechanical.

"I don't know yet," he admitted. If he turned him into GCPD, he would surely insist that he was the Batman. Considering his corresponding injuries and John Kent's recent accusations, his identity would be compromised. If he didn't, he had just let a rapist back onto the street. He would never admit he wished he had the guidance of his father's moral compass in times like these.

"This is my fault," Tam lamented. "I never wanted to need saving."

"I never wanted to have to save you." Damian admitted. He turned to face her, sliding his leg further onto the bed. "There is nothing glamorous, prestigious, exciting, or attractive about being involved in my life as the Batman."

Tam reached out her hand to cup his own. "I wouldn't be in it for me."

He looked down at their connection. Her hands spoke of a savage defense. Her fingernails were chipped. Her nail polish needed to be reapplied. His eyes narrowed to slits.

"I hate what could have happened."

"Well it didn't, thanks to you."

"Why did you stop me?"

"I know you aren't your father—"

"Thanks for noticing," he interrupted.

"—But I'll never ask or expect you to—to— _hurt_ anyone for me."

"You mean kill." He corrected, confronting her with a stare.

She turned away from him, feeling her emotions swelling. "No matter what."

"No matter what…" He echoed, unconvinced.

She let go of Damian's hand to brush the sting of tears clinging to the corner of her eyes. Her biocentrism extended from the belief that, despite her father being a completely dependent near invalid prone to bouts of hallucinations, he had lucid moments of brilliance when he sometimes even recognized her. That was enough for her to reject those that discarded him and his life as worthless. Lucius Fox meant something. And in some way beyond her understanding, so did Jimmy Gordon. For her father's sake, she accepted that.

"No matter what," she finalized.

Damian held up his hands in surrender though he could not align himself with her decision. He didn't press her for an explanation either. She got up and lifted the corner of her bedsheet and slid under it. He shifted to the edge of the bed and rested his back against the footpost. He resigned with a sigh, that for now his post tonight wouldn't be atop Gotham Tower, or soaring past the rotating skylights of Arkham Asylum to cast a reminding shadow on the inhabitants that dared to hope for a Gotham without a Batman. Tonight, he would watch Tam Fox fret, dampening her pain amidst a quartet of pillows, and satin sheets.

β

The Batcave had fallen into disrepair since Bruce Wayne's passing. The Batcomputer needed updating and reprogramming. It didn't heed to his voice commands which frustrated Damian, so it fell into self-imposed hibernation. There was no Alfred to keep the casings of relics clean. A film of dust marred their contents, the stairs were perilous, slick with the constant drips from the stalagmites above. The nightly exodus of the cave's inhabitants had left Damian buried in his own arms atop the Batcomputer controls in ghostly silence. He was nearly asleep when the soft patterning of approaching footsteps lifted his face from his arms.

"Oh, God," he groaned.

"No, just Dick."

Damian spun slowly around, hardly animated to see him despite a four-month sabbatical. Dick Grayson had always been a sort of thorn in his paw. The original Robin, zealous believer in his father and, had he not come into his own as Nightwing, the heir apparent to the cowl. His disassociation with Robin was the one thing that Damian truly admired about Dick.

He had aged, obviously, and all the sinuous muscle of his youth had been replaced with layers of Kevlar beneath the noble blue avian plastered across his chest. At the corners of his mouth, where an ever-present smile awaited to annoy his company, fine lines gathered. In their younger years, Dick frustrated him by edging out the win in combat. Damian's only impenetrable defense was his own hardened character that took Dick's recycled morals and chastening with a grain of salt. In short, Damian was stubborn and could not be coaxed or beaten into change or compliance.

He watched Dick drag a finger across the glass casing with their former Robin suit beneath. He came off rubbing a clump of dirt between his fingers.

"My goodness, who raised you? This place is a mess."

"Alfred." Damian returned flatly.

"I take offense to that for two reasons. One, you gave Bruce no credit. Two, Alfred _definitely_ doesn't have a hand in this."

Damian sighed and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. "How did you get in here?"

"This was my home before it was yours, remember?"

Damian spun the chair away from him. "What do you want?" He asked, collapsing into his arms once again.

"To remind you of your carelessness. I know what you did to Jimmy Gordon tonight."

"Yeah, but you don't know why."

"It doesn't matter. If you're going to beat someone for something that badly, at least turn them into the cops. With no evidence to justify what you did, you're no different than any criminal in this city. And—"

" _And?"_ Damian snapped from over his shoulder, a biting challenge in his delivery.

" _And_ that puts you on my radar," Dick finished, jabbing a warning finger at him.

Damian settled in his arms again with a smirk. He had succeeded in wiping that smug smile from Dick's face. That was a victory of itself. "Then you'd best get back to Bludhaven."

Dick walked up behind Damian and grabbed the cowl he had resting next to him. He balled it up in his fist as Damian watched on, indifferent to the statement he was making.

"You never did deserve this."

He got a languid sigh in return.

Dick shook his head sadly. "Make more friends than enemies, Damian."

He flopped the cowl back down and started toward one of the many Batcave exits. That was just like him to depart with sage advice hanging in the air. Damian didn't give him a second glance. If Dick wanted to wound him, he would have to try harder than that.

No, he did not have an Alfred, or an Oracle, or a James Gordon or _any_ of the men and women his father aligned himself with. They had been lost to time or death or disapproval of him and he had donned the apparel without owning the commitment. He slid his hands through his hair, slicking back loose strands from his forehead and eased the cowl back over his face. Immediately, his audio came on and the sonorous breathing like great swells of water dragging back from the shore filled him with a relief she could not know she provided.

What he did have, was a Tam Fox.


End file.
